


Rust-Coloured

by ineedsomecyanide



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dubiously Hygienic Conservation Practises, Epistolary, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Memories, Museums, Past Lives, old photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedsomecyanide/pseuds/ineedsomecyanide
Summary: Jean Valjean is a museum curator who, one day, finds an odd statue in the museum archives, a statue portraying a scowling, sinister man, who will make him embark a very particular journey of self-discovery.This is a story about loss, forgotten memories, but, ultimately, a story about love.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27
Collections: Sewerchat Anniversary Exchange 2020





	Rust-Coloured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sircathedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sircathedragon/gifts).



> _Our love is rust-coloured, it’s white dust flowing through an hourglass_  
>  _like it was sand; ochre, beige, yellow._  
>  _Like an old book,_  
>  _its pages yellowed by time._  
>  _Like a memory, like us._

Jean Valjean had not been this excited for his work in a long time. Not that he disliked his job as a museum curator, he loved it with every inch of his soul, it was what he had dedicated years of study and sacrifice to, and he still could not believe that he made it (and deep down, he did not think he was worthy). But he had fallen in the comfort of his everyday routine, and new shipments of recently restored artwork did not happen every day in a Romantic art museum. He felt as giddy and filled with innocent enthusiasm as his intern, Julien Combeferre, all wide-eyed eagerness and love for the arts.

He walked among the streets of a Paris which was starting to wake up, the soles of his shoes ticking against the cobblestones, while the rising sun painted gold the buildings and the flying pigeons, almost blinding him. But nothing could bother him today.

The statue had been recovered from the museum archives a few months before, lost between other forgotten and dusty artifacts. Valjean had found it while looking for some old documents, crammed between a devotional painting and some vases. It was almost entirely wrapped up in paper, save for a tear at the level of the statue’s eyes, too piercing to be relegated in the archives. He had promptly called Julien and the archivist, and together they had carefully hoisted it up and took it out from its encasing.

Albeit very dusty, the statue was still in good condition, and of an intensity that rarely marble statues had. Valjean couldn’t get his brain around why it had ended up down there.

The statue depicted a man, probably life-sized if your life-size was more than one hundred and ninety centimetres, dressed in nondescript, probably nineteenth century garments, although the man’s longer hair hinted at earlier years. The workmanship was extremely precise and detailed, but the statue’s most striking feature was certainly its scowl, rendered so meticulously that everyone in the room tried to avoid its gaze, almost as it belonged to a real man, who was silently judging them all.

“Title unknown, by an unknown artist”, said the archivist, in a whisper, but enough to make Valjean flinch. “I haven’t seen this statue in years... It’s said it was found in the Seine, at first they thought it was a drowned man... I think it’s from the first half of the nineteenth century, but I’ll have to check. I think some kid wrote their thesis about it, trying to find the artist. Wait, I’ll get it.”

Valjean heard the archivist’s footsteps move away, but he had eyes only for the statue: there was something so captivating in the quiet fury of the man portrayed, that gave the statue almost a terrible grace, even if the subject wasn’t a classic beauty. All of this made the sculpture even more mysterious: was it supposed to be an allegory? But for what? Or was it intended, more simply, to portray the likeness of some grumpy, eccentric gentleman?

Valjean couldn’t stop himself from touching the statue, particularly the row of buttons that decorated the front of the man’s coat. One moment his fingers were merely brushing the ridges and valleys of the marble, and the next he felt like he was brushing actual fabric and brass buttons, and felt a memory of snow and resentment and things that needed to be done quickly and fear and shame and cold iron manacles and-

“Monsieur! Monsieur Valjean! Are you feeling better? Oh gosh, you were so pale and unresponsive, I didn’t know what to do...”. Valjean’s next memory was Julien fussing over him and offering him a glass of water. He and the archivist had somehow managed to sit him up on a chair, and Julien looked as pale as Valjean felt himself to be.

“I’m good, you both worry too much, I’m always telling you! It’s just low blood pressure”. Julien and the archivist didn’t look convinced, but they didn’t bring the accident up again.

As for Valjean, a slimy, anxious feeling had gripped his stomach since he had touched the statue, and it wasn’t like it was going to go away anytime soon. A shiver on the back of his neck made him constantly look over his shoulder, like someone was following him. He was telling himself that it was just his regular anxiety, but deep down he knew there was something darker and ancient, that had been slumbering in his soul until now.

The rest of the day went on uneventful, absorbed by the mountain of work that had been delayed first by the discover of the statue, then by his almost-blackout. But that night he slept horribly, plagued by terrible dreams of a a dark and stormy sea, shackles clanging, an unending fatigue, and piercing grey eyes, boring deep into his soul.

* * *

He met “the kid who wrote their thesis about it” in a nondescript café not too far from the museum. The kid – who introduced herself as Euphrasie – was now getting her master’s degree in fine arts, and had first come across the statue while perusing the museum’s archive, looking for something else entirely.

“Oh! Like we did too!” said Valjean hiding his shy smile behind his teacup.

The young woman chuckled in return. “It seems like the statue has just that power. And when I found it, the subject was too... too intense to not research more about it!”

Sadly, there wasn’t much to research: as the archivist had said, the sculptor and the title were completely unknown. “I started calling him _l’inconnu de la Seine_ , after, you know, that girl who drowned at the end of the nineteenth century”. Another small smile on both parts.

On the phone, he had hastily made up the excuse of an exhibition about the “unknown treasures” hidden in the museum archives, and that he was calling her to have something more to say about that particular statue.

Thought at first by James Pradier, this was disproved later by experts in the field.

In the end, Euphrasie’s thesis just praised the technical aspects of the sculpture, which, while remarkable, didn’t tell Valjean any more than what he already knew.

He left her with many thanks and a smile, hiding the ghost of disappointment behind his back.

* * *

Valjean’s days went by middling into each other, consumed once again by his routine, the statue apparently forgotten. It wasn’t really, it was always at the back of his mind, but the unfulfilling researches were starting to wear Valjean down.

One evening, while he was walking to the métro station closer to the museum, as he always did, he walked past a dark and dusty antique shop, like he always did, but this time, this time something caught his eye. A daguerreotype portrait of two older men, standing close in what looked like a photographer’s studio.  
It was the likeness of the shortest man that struck him, it felt almost like he was looking in a mirror – and there was something else in the other man’s eyes, that made him rush into the small shop and pay whatever exorbitant sum the shopkeeper asked, for him to be able to bring the old photograph home.

As soon as he entered his small apartment, he opened the brown paper envelope with trembling hands. The antique dealer had sold him the daguerreotype along with the frame, which he said it was the original one the picture came with. Valjean had doubts, but, after a closer inspection, the frame revealed itself to be as old as the picture, and a some barely visible flowery writing pencilled on its back confirmed it: _Papa and his dear friend, 18--._

He touched the daguerreotype without thinking, and he was flashed by an unfamiliar light, and felt a hand on the small of his back comforting him – the hand, the hand was familiar...

Those strange memories were becoming more and more vivid with each and every day. Valjean had to steady himself to the table, before resuming his inspection; of course, the shortest man’s haircut was wrong, and his beard was thicker than Valjean’s own, but the resemblance was undoubtedly there. And the other man- no, it couldn’t be...

* * *

Valjean’s neighbours could hear his colourful language (to put it mildly) when he accidentally hit the daguerreotype frame while dusting it, on a seemingly quiet and peaceful Sunday morning.  
The frame was thrown off its balance, and flew across the room for a glorious, if brief moment, before hitting the ground; the glass glaze shattered, and the wooden moulding, strained by time, splintered.  
Luckily, after the first swearwords and the mental beatings, Valjean's practical mentality took over, and he carefully examined the frame, to see what it could be saved. Not much, really: the glass was unsalvageable, and the wooden frame had broken into too many pieces, for him to be able to glue it back in shape. Maybe tomorrow he could have talked to the antique dealer, or to some restorer, and ask them what it could be done, but for now, for now he had to put the ancient daguerreotype in a safe place, away from light and dust, and- wait. What was poking underneath the photograph? Paper? Paper to cushion the photograph? Valjean’s curious fingers touched and turned what now it was clear was a fragile yellowed envelope. Letters?  
He was on the verge of starting jumping happily up and down his apartment, lest he didn’t want to damage his furniture more than he had already done. A stack of letters that will maybe tell him some more about the mysterious man, and what was happening to him! He couldn’t believe it. He was smiling without meaning it, he had never felt this excited in a while.

He washed his hands, then recollected his instruments and reading glasses, and started reading.

* * *

A blink, and in his mind appeared very clearly the memory of writing this very letter he was now reading. He could see the candlelit room – his own room, he knew now, he finally remembered. He was sitting at a desk, in front of a mirror, and the amber glow of a candle mounted on a silver candlestick painted the furniture gold, bringing light to some shadows and creating new ones. Jean could almost hear the light scratching of his inked pen nib against the paper – they didn’t make paper like that anymore – a pen that now was writing words of love and nostalgia.

* * *

_My dear Javert,_

_A day has not passed without me thinking about you. I thought I was accustomed to my old man’s loneliness, but I must admit, I have gotten quite used to your company, and it thoroughly enjoy. You would scowl, and call me a ninny, or a schoolboy in love, but I’d say I miss you, Javert, I miss you a great deal._

_But I must not tire you with my sappiness, which, in my old age, is becoming more and more ridiculous..._

  


_~~Valje~~ Fauchelevent,_

_I am not worthy of your company, and you certainly should not miss mine. I wonder what you find in me, Monsieur: I’m not a particularly skilled conversationalist, and I’ve fallen asleep countless times while you were reading some of your novels to me (I’m still deeply ashamed, even if you said you did not take any offense). You surely could benefit from better companies than mine, and you’d deserve those too. ~~It is with much arrogance that I admit that I miss your company, too.~~_

_But I’m boring you. The paperwork for your pardon is almost complete, and I hope I will return it to you next week, or the one after that at most._

_The pardon will never atone what ~~it’s been done to you~~ I’ve done to you, but I hope it will be a first step for you to regain your well-earned status of free citizen. ~~All the tortures of hell could never atone of what I’ve done to you, and I’m not worthy of your forgiveness, much less of your friendship.~~_

_Faithfully,_

_Javert_

  


_My dear Javert,_

_It is me who should call you a ninny for not seeing how much you are worth of my company, friendship and forgiveness._

_I am awaiting you eagerly._

_In company, friendship and forgiveness,_

_U. F._

  


_Valjean,_

_You can now use your real name, as your pardon has been finalized. You are now a free man._

_I’m coming to Paris with the morning coach._

_Humbly,_

_Javert_

  


_My dear..._

  


_...I am feeling the most tender feelings for you..._

  


* * *

And now, with tear-stained cheeks, and more tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, he finally knew. He knew, and remembered, the story of Jean Valjean, his past self, but also his current one, and Javert, two men who were the two sides of the same coin, who had circled and run into each other for all their life, until they had fallen into each other’s arm and learned how to understand and heal each other. All of his memories were crystal clear now.

How strange the ways of reincarnation were! He had the chance to live at least another full life, while Javert was robbed of that possibility for mistakes that, from Valjean had understood, had been largely atoned. His own stony, pitiless behaviour in the best part of his life had been punished in a way that Valjean deemed too cruel, turning him into a literal piece of marble.

Valjean was angry with the universe, and didn’t know what to do about it. He should have probably just forgotten it, and gone on with his life, but now he had a whole another set of memories, memories that belonged to a person who was similar, but also so different from him.

He sat there, on his wooden floor, surrounded by old paper, with a cosmic rage inside, along with a deep tenderness for his past self’s love, hopeless but hopeful, feeling despair and so much love at the same time.

* * *

_Loving Javert was something that came naturally to Jean Valjean. There were no big revelations, or conflicting thoughts, or moral dilemmas. One day he was listening to him talking, and suddenly he wanted to kiss him. To him, it was the natural continuation of the relationship that had budded over the last year, when he had saved Javert from the Seine, and Javert had saved him from his own self-destructive impulse. It was the natural continuation of Valjean remembering how he took his coffee (black, no sugar), of countless evenings spent reading to a sleepy Javert on his shoulder by the fire, of admiring his quiet passion and sense of duty, of fleeting touches and shy glances, of feeling your own world and convictions turning inside out, of their lives._

* * *

He spent more and more time watching the statue, like it was calling him somehow. It came to the point that he brought the majority of his paperwork downstairs, in the archive, and worked at a rickety desk and not in his more comfortable office, just to be near the statue, to great amusement of the archivist. He had half-jokingly suggested that, if Valjean wanted, they could have the statue brought in his office, but Valjean had replied, in all seriousness, that it needed to be cleaned and restored before being moved there.

At the end of the day, the false exhibition he had told Euphrasie about as a pretext was happening, and the statue, and other less known works that had been languishing in the archive needed to be brought in a lab outside the city for their restoration.

Valjean continued his research while the statue was gone, digging deeper and deeper into the story of the Inspector and his prey, of the convict and his captor.

He read their personal correspondence, and told his inner voice to shut up when it told him that he was missing the statue. He still suffered from strange dreams, but now they were more detailed, and not every image he saw, every sensation he felt were bad ones: a girl smiling brightly and the memory of the shade in an overgrown garden brought him solace.

He tried to find Javert’s profile wherever he went, at first subconsciously and then not, when his feverish researches started verging on a slight obsession. A tall man in a coat on the métro was enough to turn his head and give him the short-lived, desperate hope that, maybe, maybe there was another person plagued by the same dreams. He knew in his heart that all of this was foolish, but he couldn’t stop.  
His fragile hope was promptly replaced by disappointment and sadness when he realized that no, that wasn’t the man he was looking for, and he stood there, immovable, among all the other people trying to catch their next train, and wondering what that old man was doing, standing still on the platform with tears in his eyes.

* * *

_A river. The dark waters of a river, a jetty. Desperation. The air leaving his lungs, “I must do it, I must, I must save him, I won’t let him throw his own life away life, I won’t”._

* * *

And now, the statue had been cleaned, and restored, and diligently collocated in his office without him asking – had his obsession already reached such levels?

Valjean sat there, among stacks of documents and letters, looking the man his past self had loved (and he had come to love too) in his stony, relentless eyes.

Then, a weird though came to his mind. His modern, museum curator mind promptly winced at the idea – it was unhygienic, and it could permanently damage a two-century-old statue, but the man he had been before was consumed by longing and sadness and love, and he could not refuse him anything anymore, not after their thoughts and memories had become so intertwined and intimately connected.

He approached the statue, shyly, almost as he could see and judge his actions, and he felt as timid and stupid as an embarrassed schoolboy. “Well... well. I’m sorry, it’s been a long time...” He cleaned his hands on his trousers, not sure what to do with them, feeling his own cheeks heat up and redden. For a terrible moment, he couldn’t stop thinking about how dumb he looked, and what if someone entered the room in this very moment?, but then his past self took over, cupped the statue’s cheek and covered its cold, stony lips with his own.

And then there were warm, human, real lips kissing him back, sealing a promise that had survived through centuries, as to say _I’m here, I’m here now, I won’t leave you again._

**Author's Note:**

> Author has no idea how museums, museum archives and museum exhibitions work, and is very sorry.  
> Suspension of disbelief is key, especially for this fic.  
> The only reason why past!Valjean and modern!Valjean share the same name is a very hugolian coincidence (or so I tell myself).


End file.
